


The Best Laid Plans of Cannibals

by Sophie3



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Hannibal is very Concerned, Humor, It's for Will's own Good, diets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:58:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3386015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie3/pseuds/Sophie3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal invited Will over for dinner.  Things do not go as planned.  Poor Hannibal just wanted a nice dinner with his one friend.  Drastic steps might be necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Laid Plans of Cannibals

Someone had taken to strangling, gutting and impaling joggers on picnic tables. The workmanship was hardly refined, but what the killer lacked in skills he seemed determined to make up for in enthusiasm. There was so much blood that the dried, grey wood had been transformed into a cheery cherry red. It was probably the best thing to have come out of the kill.

  
Will had been staring at the body for nearly twenty minutes now, while Hannibal stood a respectable five yards away and stared at him. This wasn’t a difficult case for the FBI. In all honesty, it was beneath a profiler of Will’s caliber. But it was hard to ignore when the killer had taken to using popular state parks in what amounted to the FBI’s backyard. So Jack had dragged poor Will out of a second class this week, to stand in the damp and the cold and stare at a tableau that even a first year student could figure out.

  
The strangulation was because their killer was driven by rage and had a pitiful since of self-control. The gutting was merely the byproduct of an underdeveloped mind acting out on the childish impulse to pull something apart just because. The impaling using old kitchen knives was classically Freudian, with the accompanying overkill that could only be expected from such an amateur. Even the knives themselves were uninspiring. They had likely been picked up at thrift stores because their killer, for some reason, felt that was more inconspicuous. Because a man buying bundles of chipped and dulled cheap kitchen knives from small community run shops was going to draw less attention than buying a proper set from any department store in the Northern Virginia area.

  
All in all, it was a terrible waste of Will’s time. And for some reason, Jack felt the need to have Hannibal here as well. Perhaps because the bulldog of a man was finally starting to realize not all was well with their mutual acquaintance. Surprising, really, that Jack would even notice the constant fever, headaches and manic look in Will’s eyes.

  
Hannibal was not certain if this shift in their dynamic would benefit him or not. It was a bit early for Jack to realize something was wrong. But Hannibal could not deny the pleasure of watching Will work, even on something as mundane as the Picnic Table Killer.

  
Will sighed as he finished. He gave his report to Jack in quiet, simple statements. Nothing Hannibal had not already inferred. Nothing a decent police officer with a class in introductory phycology couldn’t figure out. Will even managed to keep a civil tone. Either the illness was wearing him out more than usual or the substandard work left him less sassy.

  
Either way, it seemed to Hannibal that such good manners after such a disappointment deserved a reward. For Hannibal, at least.

  
“How are you feeling, Will?”

  
“Fine.” An honest answer only in a relative sense. Will had never been fine as long as Hannibal had known him, but it was always good to get an idea of Will’s mental state by asking. And it was the expected thing to do.

  
“I am glad to hear that,” Hannibal replied. Which was only a half lie. He was pleased by the whole process of watching Will Graham fall apart, both the good days and the bad. “I hope you won’t have too much class work to make up after this.”

  
Will sighed and rubbed at his scalp. He’d neglected a hat in this early winter chill and while his curls and fever might be enough to keep that lovely head of his quite toasty, his ears were bright pink and delectable looking. “It’s fine. It’s only finals.”

  
Hannibal let himself smile slowly. He found he rather liked Will’s used of dead-pan humor. It balanced his own use of puns quite well. “I do hope so,” he told him warmly. “I had been hoping to invite you over for dinner this weekend. You have yet to let me cook for you, and I am most eager to have your opinion.” In fact, he had been planning for such a delight for some time. He had picked out the perfect main course and planned on fetching it tonight. After all, he could hardly pass up demonstrating how to properly gut and pin a man to a picnic table. Will would like that. He reacted so strongly when Hannibal took someone else’s inferior work and improved on it. It was like Will looked at a crime scene and also saw just how much better it could be.

  
Will hunched his shoulders in at the mere suggestion of social activity. “I’m not a good dinner guest.”

“Nonsense,” Hannibal answered as warmly as he felt was reasonable. Things were going so well now that he was certain a show of affection and camaraderie would not only be accepted but would allow Hannibal to insinuate himself even further into Will’s life and concept of safety. “It would be a modest affair, nothing too taxing. I would simply like to enjoy the pleasure of your company.”

  
Will shifted his feet and fixed his eyes on Hannibal’s tie. It was one of Hannibal’s best, a lovely piece of Italian craftsmanship in soothing blue and green. There were worst things Will would fixate on. “I really couldn’t.”

  
In anyone else, Hannibal might have called it false modesty, but dear Will was always a shy creature, difficult to lure out but always worth the patience. “I have this particular roast in mind that I think you would find surprisingly delicious,” he told him, knowing his good reputation as a chef always proceeded him and hoping to entice Will into compliance.

  
Unfortunately, Will rather looked a bit nauseous and Hannibal felt a rare moment of doubt. Maybe this Picnic Table Killer had managed to sour Will’s appetite. If that was the case, then Hannibal might have to change his plans on who he was serving to Will this weekend. It would be the height of rudeness for an amateur to ruin Hannibal’s carefully laid plans. Hannibal stepped closer, blocking out the view of the table behind him and lowering his voice. “It would be good for you, I believe. And I would be most gratified to feed you from my own table.”

  
The proximity had the effect Hannibal had hoped for. While Will could get away without making eyes contact in typical situations, he was far too cognizant of his own behavior not to look up when brought into a situation of such intimacy. He lifted his chin, his eyes wide behind his glasses and he breathed in deeply without thought. Hannibal wanted to know what Will could smell. His aftershave? The sandalwood from his closet? His morning coffee? The smell of the cooked human meat in the homemade sausage that he had had with breakfast? He would be delighted if it was the later, even if it would mean drastically changing his plans. Hannibal had not become the man he was today without learning how to adapt a situation in his favor.

  
Will looked lovely staring back at him like that, with the flush of fever across his brow and the bite of cold burning his ears. He looked startled, uncertain, ready to flee. Such a strong reaction to a simple overture. Clearly, Hannibal’s invitation to dinner could not have been better timed. He would take advantage of this, explore it, savor it…

  
“I’m a pesetarian!”

  
Hannibal pulled back sharply. He stared into Will’s eyes, looking for signs of confusion or dilation. Was he having an episode? Still channeling the regretful waste of a meat sack that was responsible for today’s work? Maybe his fever was much higher than Hannibal had thought. He was tempted to check. Because there had to be some sort of explanation. “What?”

  
Will tugged at the bottom of his jacket, the only thing he could fiddle with while the two of them were standing so close together. “I only eat fish. I mean, not just fish. But the only meat I eat it fish. Grew up fishing. You knew that already. Everything else makes me sick,” that nauseous look was back as Will’s eyes unfocused for a moment before he shook it off. “I mean, I’m sure your cooking is wonderful. I’ve heard so many good things. But I can’t. That why I don’t make a good dinner guest. Well, that’s not only why, but it certainly complicated things. No one likes a picky guest. And it’s so hard to explain to others. They think I’m making it up or something. I don’t mean to be rude. I hope you understand. You do, don’t you?”

  
Hannibal stared down at his dear Will. His mind raced. This was not a part of the plan. The plan was perfect. It was going to be his best work yet. Perhaps the most gratifying as well. He had such plans! He was going to enjoy this so! And now this!

  
For one brief moment, so sharp it felt like he was the piece of meat skewered behind him, Hannibal thought about changing his plans on what would be served this weekend. The disappointment, frustration and regret were enough to make him want to do something drastic. Something permanent. Something to put this whole ugliness behind him.

  
But that would be the easy solution and Hannibal had never been one for simplicity. He stared at Will. There was simply no helping it. Will’s unaccountable dietary habits had made him unusable and hence no longer necessary. This could not continue.

  
Hannibal smiled all teeth and darkness and hoped Will didn’t see too much of what was right in front of him.

  
“We’ll just have to change that, won’t we?”

  
After all, Hannibal knew how to change with the situation and how to change the situation to him. If Will wasn’t ready for Hannibal’s masterpiece, then Hannibal would have to adapt him so he was. They would start with beef stock. Something mild. If he ended up needing his stomach pumped, nothing that would draw any unwanted attention. From there they could work their way up.

  
For Will’s health, of course.

  
And Hannibal would need to be there every step of the way. Guiding him.


End file.
